Skirting the Topic
by Aira Kay
Summary: Arthur wasn't one to welch on a bet, even when he'd lost, but that didn't mean he wouldn't kill Francis after the fact, because there was absolutely positively no way this was going to work.


**Skirting the Topic**

"Why the bloody _fuck_ is this skirt so short?" Arthur Kirkland's rage was almost tangible as he pulled aforementioned garment as far down on his legs as he could. Unfortunately for him, that wasn't terribly far, and he shot a glare at the blond pair across from him. "You know what, scratch that, why am I _wearing_ this in the first place?"

"Because, cher, _you_ lost our little wager, and so you must pay the price now, musn't you?" Arthur narrowed his poisonous emerald gaze on the French tosser, imagining all the ways he could brutally murder his fellow student.

"'Sides, you look, like, totes hot in that gettup. You should totally wear skirts more often, 'cause, like, your legs are _way_ sexy." Feliks snapped his gum with a grin. "I have this forest green one that would, like, totally match your eyes perfectly."

"That depends," grunted Arthur, wrestling with the plaid pleats he was already burdened with, trying to make extra certain he wasn't going to flash anyone if he left the room. "Is it longer than this one?"

The third member of their party waved the question off. "Time for that later, I think. Now..." He lifted a long wig up to Arthur's head, securing it neatly over the wig cap they'd put on him. "The pièce de résistance!"

"I wish you'd resist," Arthur muttered, but it was ignored as a green headband was placed atop the ensemble.

Feliks nodded his approval. "Like, you make a super cute girl, not gonna lie. You totes need to dress up more often, ditch all those stuffy old man vests you like so much."

Arthur's protests that his sweater vests were dignified and elegant, thank you very much, were silenced by an interruption from the bastard cause of his current predicament. "Now, mon lapin, you'll go and confess to your little crush, yes?"

Huffing upward at the fringe of hair covering his rather identifying eyebrows and crossing his arms, Arthur scowled. "Fine."

"Well, then, let's, like, totally get this show on the road." And with that, Arthur was ushered out the door and onto the quad.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland, you see, had a bit of a problem. A loud, obnoxious, childish, naive, idiotic, burger-scarfing, soda-slurping, arrogant, over-muscled, sun-kissed, golden-haired, over friendly, hero-obsessed, constantly aggravating kind of problem.

His name was Alfred. Alfred F. Jones, stereotypical high school quarterback at World Academy W, and boy did Arthur have it bad for him.

It didn't start that way, of course. In fact, given the fact they'd been snarking at each other since their first year, one would think they hated one another.

Arthur wasn't sure when that had changed, and cursed the fact that it had at all, but maybe it had something to do with the way Alfred's jabs had taken on a more _gentle_ tone, like he was teasing a friend instead of making a mockery. Or with how he'd put up with Arthur tutoring him in Lit Studies, and returned the favor for physics. And Arthur supposed that Alfred bringing him (and his fellows) dinner when he'd been holed up in the student council room all evening didn't hurt matters, even if it wasn't personal.

Unfortunately for Arthur, Alfred F. Jones was also very certainly straight as the proverbial arrow, and he had a plethora of kind, fun, beautiful girls to choose from. He'd never look twice at the surly, thick-browed, scruffy student council president, who he always insisted dressed like his grandfather.

But whenever Arthur bemoaned this fact to his best frenemy, aforementioned French tosser Francis Bonnefoy, the other student would give him the most thin-lipped, condescending eyebrow-raised expression he could muster. Arthur was never sure why this was, but most of the time it ended up with him punching Francis in the face.

You know. Politely.

So when Arthur had lost a bet to Francis, penalty one favor of the Frenchman's choice - and boy was he never making the mistake of not specifying terms first again - Francis had insisted that he confess to Alfred.

As a girl.

Hence why he had been paraded out onto the quad and then abandoned. Arthur had no doubt that Francis and Feliks were watching from some ideal vantage point nearby, the sods.

He hoped Francis wasn't taking video. Bad enough that students meandered across the campus in small droves, surprisingly many considering most should be in class. Was there a sports match on? Maybe a teacher had released their students early?

An absolutely incredulous cry of his name distracted him from his distraction, and as Alfred jogged toward him, Arthur tugged on the uniform skirt again, very aware of the cold air on his legs - how did people stand this in the winter, he'd have to go about making sure no one was forced to, he was bloody _freezing_ , and he could feel the wig cap sliding off his head already, slipping back on his hairline -

"Dude, Arthur, what're you wearing?" The question came paired with wide eyes and a tilt of the head, curious and innocent. Arthur's mouth tasted like sandpaper, dry and gritty and oh, how he didn't want to be doing this, maybe he could just run away. But there was Francis, watching from around the corner, and a gentleman didn't welch on his bets, and so Arthur Kirkland wet his lips and pitched his voice a few notes higher.

"No, I'm - I'm sorry, I'm - Alice." The name was improvised, pulled from a childhood favorite - fitting, he felt like he'd fallen into Wonderland, the way Alfred was looking him over with a slight frown.

"Oh." A blond head tilted in the opposite directions, arms crossing and brow puckering just slightly. "Sorry, Alice, then. But, I mean, same person, though, right?" The golden boy gave a small grin, though his eyes kept glancing downwards; damn this skirt, Arthur hated feeling so... exposed. "You look nice."

Arthur's heart dropped in his chest; of course Alfred would prefer him as a girl. "No! No, I'm not - not at all, I'm someone else, I -"

At that, Alfred snorted. "Oh come on, I'd recognize those eyebrow anywhere, even if they are hidden by your bangs - and since when do you have bangs like that? Or long hair? Is that a wig?"

Oh bad, oh bad, oh bad, bad, bad. "What? No, it most certainly isn't! I'm - I'm Arthur's twin, you twit! His _sister_!" That seemed like a reasonable assertion; it wasn't as though Alfred paid him enough attention to know that -

But the taller boy had flat-out frowned at that. Crap, Arthur had pissed him off. Well, there went the plan of confessing, not that any stupid idea of Francis's would have worked anyway. "Arthur doesn't have a twin sister. Or any siblings, not that go here."

"How do you know? You've never even talked to him!" The words were out of his mouth in his normal voice before he could trap them behind clenched teeth, indignant and too _loud._ Oh, bloody hell, he'd made a mess of this whole thing, in just a few sentences, like he always did. Maybe he could just slip back to his room and pretend this whole thing had never happened. But before he could duck his head to mutter an apology and some vague excuse for leaving (laundry? study group? hear a cat calling for help?), he made the (horrible, wonderful) mistake of glancing over at Alfred.

Alfred F. Jones was blushing. Full-on, pink-cheeked blushing, biting on the inside of his lip and scuffing the toe of one boot against the ground. Somehow, with his blue eyes peering up through his fringe the way they were, he seemed shorter than Arthur. His voice, when he finally spoke, wasn't the normal brash almost-yell; in fact, it was an indoor voice, almost but not quite quiet enough to be called a whisper. "We're talking now, aren't we?"

Arthur could feel the heat suffusing its way across his cheeks, knew they would be the color of one of Antonio's tomatoes, and, as per usual, tried to cover it with grump and bluster. "I told you, I'm not Arthur!"

Before Alfred could reply, the bell rang to signal the end of classes, and then they were surrounded by the buzzing hoard of gleeful students, ready to begin their weekend or rushing off to rehearsal or practice or wherever, heedless of those in their way. One of these jostled Arthur just wrong, elbowing him in the side and knocking him into another, and he toppled over like a tree. The wig, not secured, slipped from his head onto the ground, revealing his short tufty locks, even more unruly than usual due to its confinement.

The jig was up now. Arthur lay sprawled on the ground, dignity in tattered shreds and calling Francis and Feliks every name he could think of. Why did he agree to this? He should have made them pick something else, anything else, what would Alfred think? He'd never have a chance now, might as well change schools, change cities, change bloody _countries_ because that was the only way to salvage this situation.

"Hey, are you all right?" Arthur refocused, blinking at the extended hand before him, and then at its owner.

"...sorry?"

"Are you okay?" Alfred's voice was gentle, not brash and boisterous as it usually was. Did Arthur like the change? He wasn't certain, not when he didn't know what it entailed. It could be pity, and that would be worse than anything; he'd almost rather Alfred hated him than saw him as some contemptible pathetic sob story. Dazedly, he took the proffered hand, letting Alfred help him to his feet, keeping an eye on the other boy all the while. The American ran a thumb across Arthur's cheek, laughing sheepishly when Arthur started. "Sorry. You had a little dirt."

"What is _wrong_ with you?" The words were out before Arthur could stop himself, cheeks prickling with the needle-sharp flush of shame. "Why are you being so - so -"

Alfred blinked and took half a step back, tilting his head to look Arthur over and then ducking his head once more. "You make my stomach feel all... jittery. Like when you eat too much spicy food, yanno?" Arthur almost about-faced and left then and there, but Alfred's next words rooted him to the spot. "I just... I really like you." The taller blond ruffled the hair on the back of his head with a small grin and eyes right on Arthur. "And I'd really like to kiss you." He paused. "...can I?"

And there went all the breath from Arthur's lungs. "I..." His mouth was desert dry again and he licked his lips, stepping closer to Alfred. "Yes, I'd... I'd quite like that." The smile that burst forth through the clouds of uncertainty on Alfred's face shone no less brightly than the sun in the sky, and then Alfred F. Jones had stepped forward and given him a small peck on the lips, twining their hands together.

Giddy. That was the word for the fluttering sensation of butterflies in his veins. It was over far too soon, of course, but when Alfred drew back, he asked, "Meet me for dinner, Alice? Or... Arthur?" His brow puckered in a slight frown. "Which do you prefer? Or is it both?"

"Arthur is fine. And dinner too. When and where?"

"Uh... Vazzi's okay? Maybe around six?" As Arthur nodded his assent, Alfred's watch beeped. "Shit, I gotta get to practice." Leaning forward, he pecked Arthur's cheek, and then lingered a little longer before whispering, "And... uh... I don't know why you're wearing that skirt, but your legs look _really_ nice in it. Just sayin'." Then he turned and ran off, leaving Arthur squawking indignantly and trying to cover a fierce blush and a smile.

Maybe he wouldn't cook Francis into a meat pie after all.

 **End.**

* * *

 **One Year Later**

Arthur glanced himself over in the mirror one last time, making a few final fixes to his attire before the knock on his dorm door drew his attention away. When he opened it, there was Alfred, bright and shining and carrying their favorite takeaway food. His eyes, however, were glued to the screen of his phone, not even glancing up as he gave Arthur a small kiss on the cheek. "Hey, bae. Gotcha flowers!" He thrust the blooms in Arthur's general direction. "Sorry, just filling Gil in on what he missed in Stats, I'm almost done-" Finally, finally, he glanced up at Arthur, his eyes promptly widening to the size of dinner plates as he took in the forest green skirt and matching top that Arthur had borrowed from Feliks the day before.

Arthur fiddled with the skirt's hem nervously. "I thought... well, given how things... got worked out between us, this might be fitting -" But his rambling was put on hold as Alfred tossed his phone onto the table and wrapped his arms around the smaller man.

"Happy anniversary, Arthur." And then Alfred smiled downright wickedly. "I've told you before that you look even hotter than usual in a skirt, right?"

Arthur swatted his arm with an indignant "Alfred!" but didn't complain when Alfred pulled him into a firm kiss.

Happy anniversary indeed.

* * *

 **A/N: Once again, thanks to my muse and actual real-life Alfred, Jaegerbratastic. I hope you enjoyed reading!  
**


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